Wolfgang looked hard at the Venezuelan and Croatian boxes on the board for a couple of seconds.
He then spoke out loud to himself pointing at the board, following connections as he did.
‘Freddie phones on his secretive Croatian landline: Müller; a Croatian general; a, as yet unassigned, US cell; a UK mobile number with multiple Church links and a flight to Caracas; and, a landline in the Amazonas, Venezuela.’ He paused and thought. ‘Neither of you …’, he was now pointing at photos of Cardinal Pérez and the civil servant Rojas, ‘travel outside of Caracas - I’m pretty certain of that. But …’, he touched on a third, empty mugshot box for Venezuela. A form popped up. There were several empty fields, one of which was ‘telephone number’.
He typed in the Amazonas landline number. In the title box he typed ‘Unknown’.
He then hovered over the fourth mugshot box. He prodded it and an equivalent form appeared. He typed ‘Anomaly’ on the top line and then added the +44 7795 number.
‘You, whoever you are, flew into Caracas three weeks ago. You have multiple links to at least 12 other Church members - and the mysterious Croatian, Freddie. And you spend time in a country that he calls often.’
Who are you?
And who is Freddie?
Are they both key?
And, what’s a UK number doing in Caracas?
I don’t know.
That was his next job. He’d interrogated Freddie as far as he could at the moment. Now he’d get into Virgin UK and try and find out more about this mysterious number.
And that threw up his now recurring problem. Every time he opened a new lead, such as Freddie and this Virgin UK Number, it spawned 30 more. He only had so many hours in the day. He could really do with a team of people working for him - people who were as good at this as he was. Unfortunately he didn’t have that luxury.
St Augustine Beach, St Augustine, Florida
Austin and his retired FBI pal, Mike Dawson, struggled with their gear. They both had their set ways when it came to fishing on the beach. And they both had their own fishing ‘pack’: a box full of bait, spare reels, tackle, knives and other tools. Two long rods each. A chair, a rod holder (Austin’s screwed into the sand - his pal’s was a tripod affair) and buckets. And, not forgetting, the obligatory food and beer cooler.
It was a 500 yard trek from the car park to the beach. And both men needed a breather by the time they got to the water’s edge.
Austin dumped his gear on dry sand. He looked across the ocean to the infinite horizon. It was a perfect day. Thick, light-blue icing on top of a dark blue cake. He was rubbish at metaphors, but that worked for him. The sky was cloudless, the sun was one-tenth of its way from east to west - bright but not blazing, and a whiff of wind caught the top of the water, ripples riding the surface. The fish would be in-shore soon. Searching for warmer water and the food that comes with it. If he and Mike were lucky they may catch a red drum or two.
Not that he was bothered. This short-notice trip wasn’t about fishing. It had another purpose.
He’d got back from Las Vegas yesterday lunchtime. Himself, his carry-on case and the lime-green flash drive. First thing yesterday he’d been asked by the cops to formally identify Rick’s body. He’d seen more cadavers than he cared to remember, but watching the sheet being lifted to expose his son’s white face was more than he could bear. He thought he was going to collapse again - but his stomach took his attention elsewhere. It lurched; a pathetic moment. Humiliating and agonising. He had made it to the bench before his breakfast sullied the metal pan of the mortician’s sink.
‘Yes. That’s him. That’s Rick.’ He had said, wiping the puke from his chin with the back of his hand whilst leaning over the sink.
The next 12 hours were a blur. He had made a couple of calls, including one to a local undertaker who, having taken his credit card details, had agreed to collect Rick’s body after the autopsy and deliver it to Florida. Austin had no idea when that would be - nor had the cops. They reckoned that it would be at least a month before Rick’s body would be released.
Once he’d finished at the morgue, Austin couldn’t stay in Vegas any longer. Rick was dead. His wife was living. She needed him; Rick would cope.
He was home eight hours later. His wife didn’t meet him at the airport; driving wasn’t her favourite hobby. He’d got a taxi home and was met by a waterfall of tears. She sobbed and sobbed. He hugged and hugged. It was as gruelling as it was saddening. Rick was their only child - biological events had made a second out of the question. And now he was gone.
He’d made supper - which was a rare occurrence. And stacked the dishwasher. His wife was away with the pixies. She pushed her food about her plate and then went to bed. Later he’d taken her up a mug of hot chocolate when there had been more tears - and more hugs.
By the time he’d finished the chores it was close to 10 pm. He poured himself a bourbon and took his usual chair on the back porch. The sun was down, the air cool and all he could hear was the odd cricket call - and his wife’s sobs through the bedroom window.
It was a beautiful view even in the dark. The end of their garden, which was mostly laid to lawn, was 80 feet away. At that point the dunes rose to about 20 feet, peppered with thorny bushes - a haven for critters of all kinds. Above them were the stars, winking at him on a blanket of blue black.
On any other evening it would have been a perfect place to sit. Last night it had helped - it really had. But only a bit. He’d reached into his pocket and picked out the flash drive. He turned it round in his fingers, the light from the back door picking up the lime green - a luminescent stick of radioactive material.
What now?
Tomorrow would normally have been golf day. He was part of a regular foursome. Four retirees of all shapes and sizes. In a moment of lucidity before he left Vegas yesterday, he’d emailed the group and cancelled. He thought he’d said something along the lines of, ‘I’m not feeling that good. Maybe next week?’
So, tomorrow was a non-golf day. A different day. Different from every other tomorrow. It was a day without Rick. A day without their murdered son.
Another day more distant from his death.
He could look at that two ways. Either, he could wake up closer to when, in many years' time, he and his wife’s life might have returned to something close to normality - whatever that may look like; the pragmatic soldier trained to move on from the last setback.
Or.
He’d find himself a further day removed from the cause of Rick’s death. A day lost. A day when he should have been pursuing his son’s murderers. A day allowing the evidence to cool.
He took a sip of his drink and pondered that thought.
Damn it.
At that point he’d stood and gone inside, leaving his bourbon on the glass-topped wicker table.
He’d picked up the phone and dialled Mike’s number.
‘Mike here.’
‘Hi, Mike. Fishing tomorrow?’
‘What, first thing?’ No hesitation.
‘Sure. Are you up for that?’
‘Yeah. If I’m out of the house before eight, Cynth won’t notice. See you then?’
‘Sure thing. I’ll pick you up.’
Austin had put the phone back on the cradle. Stony faced, he stared into space.
I cannot rest.
That was last night.
And this was now. By the beach. A beautiful day. Fishing. A cooler full of beef jerky and beer. On any other day he’d have been as close to nirvana as was possible.
But the day was neither beautiful, nor was he close to any sort of heaven.
Having fetched Mike from his house, it had taken Austin half an hour to tell him what had happened to his son. Ten minutes of that was on the short drive to the beach. The last 20 sitting in the car. Mike had, as Austin expected, handled the whole thing brilliantly. Like a true pal. Like an FBI agent with 35 years' experience.
In the telling Austin hadn’t mentioned th
e secret report. Not then.
Once they had both set up and cast their lines, Austin pulled out a couple of stubbies, walked the ten yards that separated his rod from Mike’s, and offered him a can.
Mike took it with a smile.
‘Thanks, Austin. And, look, I’m so sorry about Rick. He was a great guy. The best. I can’t begin to imagine.’ He pulled the ring and took a swig of his beer.
‘If there is anything I can do …’
Austin nodded and took a couple of gulps of his can. He wasn’t a great drinker. He’d seen the impact of alcohol addiction on so many soldiers. Just now, though, he needed something to help overcome a hurdle in his mind.
‘Thanks, Mike. Means a lot.’ He took another swig. ‘Actually there is something you can do for me. If you don’t mind.’ Austin looked away from Mike - across the vast ocean. Next stop Africa. Part of him wanted to take their 35 foot yacht and sail away. And never come back.
‘Sure, Austin. Sure. We’re old pals. Help is what friends are for.’
Austin looked back at Mike and smiled. He knew he had tears in his eyes. He knew that what he was going to say now might ruin his son’s reputation and could, if someone was feeling vindictive, land his son’s father in jail.
‘Before Rick died he told me to find a flash drive that was in his jacket pocket …’
Twenty-five minutes later Austin had told Mike everything. They’d had a five-minute interval when Austin had to run to his rod to haul in, and then throw back, a small red drum. But other than that it was one-way traffic.
Mike was an experienced federal agent - and a very good listener. He’d never shared the details of his career with Austin, other than what job he was doing when he had reached retirement age: Executive Assistant Director. Austin remembered looking it up when he’d got his hands on a computer. It was a senior post.
‘That’s something else, Austin. Do you mind if I have another beer?’
Austin went back to cool box and fished out two more stubbies.
‘Do you know if he passed the report on to anyone? Could it be possible that it was just in draft?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but I think he sent it to his boss.’
‘How do you know?’
‘When I tried to get in touch with the commander of the 432nd, he’d been moved on. And this was just two days after Rick was shot. If he’d submitted the report to his boss, who’d then shared it someone else - someone who didn’t want anyone to find out about Venezuela - then it makes sense that both Rick and his boss were dangerous - they knew too much?’
Mike put up both hands.
‘Whoa. Hang on, Austin. That’s one helluva conspiracy theory.’
It was Mike’s turn to look out at the ocean.
Don’t I know it.
‘What do you want me to do, Austin?’
‘I want you to take the report and share it with some of your buddies at the Bureau. See if it makes any sense at all. Look …’
Mike turned back to Austin. His face was open, broad-cheeked. Austin knew he could trust him.
‘... Rick wrote a report. A pretty sensational report about a set-up in Venezuela that didn’t want to be found. A day after he’d written the report he got gunned down in the street - in daylight. Twenty-four hours after that, someone messes with the machines that were keeping him alive. Someone wanted Rick dead. My son. Just a newly-promoted lieutenant in the Air Force. A nobody.’ He knew it sounded like a plea. ‘And, to top it all, a day later his boss, to whom the report was almost certainly directed, is removed from post. These events have to be connected?’
Mike chewed on his lip.
‘Where’s the flash drive now.’
Austin touched his pocket.
‘Here.’
‘Is it password-protected?’
‘No.’
‘Give it me, Austin. Please.’
Austin took it out of his pocket and handed it over to his friend.
‘What are you going to do with it?
‘I know the top man in the Jacksonville office. He’s an old pal. I’ll speak to him this afternoon - and arrange for a copy of the report to be shared. That may take a little longer. I might have to go there myself.’
Austin smiled. It was the first time he’d managed a smile in four days.
‘Thanks Mike. It’s great to know that I’m not alone in this.’
Mike nodded.
‘You understand that Rick’s name might be mud once this gets out. You know, “Lieutenant takes secret documents off base.”’.
It was Austin’s turn to nod.
Mike continued. ‘And you too. Possession of classified documents is a federal offence?’
He nodded again. He knew the gravity of the situation.
‘And, finally, have you taken a copy of the file?’
‘No.’
Austin’s lie was accompanied by the shaking of his head.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Frank chewed on the remnants of a peanut butter and jam sandwich, putting far too much in his mouth. Finishing it off would be a struggle. As he chewed, he used his left hand - the one not covered in peanuts and conserve, to touch the ‘play’ button on his screen. The secure video had been sent through by dstl, the British government’s team of military scientists and engineers. They were always on the cutting edge of technology; and were always cone-headed enough to be sent down an experimental rabbit hole if it looked like a lot of fun.
Video clips weren’t their only method of communication. Most of them could write. But they were engineers and pragmatic scientists, who liked making things and then blowing them up again. Writing was for staff officers. Videos and demonstrations were much more their bag.
The video started. It was, not surprisingly, narrated by a man in a white coat. He was outside a lab and had one foot on a remote-control toy Humvee. In his hand he had, what Frank assumed was, a radio transmitter - it looked like a large walkie-talkie. There was a flipchart beside him, the bottom of the pile of paper sheets gently flapping in the breeze. The man in the white coat didn’t say anything for a few seconds. This allowed the title of the demonstration to fade in and then out.
The fallibility of GPS.
The scientist was lucid, even if the maths and communication jargon he discussed using his flipchart weren’t. Frank was tempted to scroll the video on. Instead he wiped his hands on his AC/DC-motif hanky.
A few minutes later the scientist had finished with the flipchart.
‘So. As you can see from the science, it should be possible to override individual GPS receivers with new positioning data. Alter its view of where it is in the world, if you like. If you can make that happen and the object that the GPS serves is mid-flight, or mid-drive, any associated navigational software will alter the object’s course immediately.’ The man in the white coat paused for a second, waiting for his luddite audience to catch up.
‘Let’s look at it another way. Assume you live in London and you set your satnav to direct you to Edinburgh. The GPS receiver knows where you are - in London - and it knows where Edinburgh is. It computes a route and off you go. Now, if I remotely tell the GPS receiver that you’re no longer in London, but in Cardiff - change your X and Y domain - your satnav will recompute your journey. From Cardiff. Whereas originally you were driving north to get to Edinburgh, now you’re driving northeast. As a result, whilst you think you’re heading up the A1, you’re not. You’re heading up the A12 for Clacton. And you wouldn’t want that. Well, who would?’
Frank smiled. A scientist’s joke. He got the techy stuff now. And he quite liked Clacton.
‘Now, let me demonstrate this practically with this Humvee, which is fitted with a GPS receiver and simple navigational software. We have pre-programmed it with a route from here,’ the scientist pointed at the Hummer under his foot, ‘to over there.’ He was now pointing at a child’s football net, about 20 metres away. All I need to do is turn it on and it will, slowly, drive in a strai
ght line until it’s caught up in the net.’
He held up the transmitter.
‘This transceiver is programmed to send new X and Y coordinate details, latitude and longitude, to the GPS receiver in the Hummer. We have doctored it to receive VHF, that is radio, frequencies. Not microwave, satellite signals, which it would do normally. That’s for expediency purposes only.’
The scientist then bent down and switched a button on the Humvee. It moved steadily in a straight line towards the net.
‘Watch.’ The scientist pressed a button on the transmitter in his hand. Immediately the Humvee swerved left, and then continued on a straight trajectory towards a wall. Three seconds later the toy hit the wall. It wasn’t travelling very quickly, but it was going fast enough that, on impact, its rear wheels lifted off the ground and a piece of plastic broke off its bumper.
The video camera panned back to the man in the white coat.
‘This proves that it’s possible to alter the positioning data being received by a GPS receiver and, once you do so, for the associated navigational software …’
Frank’s concentration was disturbed. Jane was at his desk.
‘Let it run.’ Jane said quietly, looking over his shoulder.
They watched for a further five minutes as the scientist demonstrated how you could isolate a single GPS receiver and send it false positioning data, whilst not affecting other receivers on the same frequency. For this, he used the same toy Humvee and now introduced a bright blue Volkswagen Beetle. As the experiment unfolded the Humvee veered off to the left again but the Beetle travelled in a straight line and was caught by the net.
The camera was back on the scientist.
‘Provided we know the GPS receiver’s serial number we can target it individually, whilst still broadcasting correct data to everyone else. That piece of science is relatively easy. But there’s a problem: getting the doctored data to the receiver via the GPS satellite system. The US GPS system is pretty well rigged with excellent quality encryption and at least three fail-safes to prevent data override. Unless the US are sending rogue data themselves, we at dstl think the chance of third-party interference is close to zero. If a terrorist wanted to drive a US Frigate into a civilian freighter, we think they’d be better off bribing the captain.’
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